Last Call For Caviar (14 page)

I grabbed a couple of long-sleeved shirts from Arnaud’s closet, feeling a pang of guilt at how easily I’d appropriated his home. If I ever saw Arnaud again, I would do whatever I could to make up for having squatted in his home and made such free use of his possessions.

But my momentary pang of guilt didn’t stop me from pulling down a canvas gym bag from the top shelf and packing two sweaters, socks, underwear and sweatpants from his wardrobe. I added a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, apples, canned milk, boxes of raisins, six cans of tuna, a dozen protein bars, a can opener and some utensils. The bag was bulging, and I struggled to zip it shut.

I grabbed the Land Rover’s keys and locked the dome. I hauled the gym bag out to the garage. I crossed my fingers and prayed. The engine started up on the first try. The tank was full, but I loaded four cans of fuel and bottled water into the back. I ran down my list to be sure I’d forgotten nothing essential.

I had my Glock and extra ammunition in my gun bag; also the Colt. I thought about giving Luca the Colt as protection on their journey through Italy. I weighed the pros and cons in my mind. But then, I thought about how Buddy had remained so wary in their presence.

For all intents and purposes, they were fleeing to Italy, but something could go wrong with their plans, and they might be forced to turn back. They knew about the training center. They knew they could find shelter there. They could discover the location of the Astrarama if they snooped around.

Luca and Joanna were scared kids on the run. They were exhausted. They seemed docile and no threat. But how much did that have to do with having a Glock trained on them while they recounted their tale of woe?

Nope! Giving them a weapon would be taking kindness to strangers too far. One dark and stormy night, my kind gift might turn around and shoot me in the butt.

I called Buddy over, but he wouldn’t climb in the SUV. I wasn’t surprised or worried. He knew these trails better than I did. He’d find his way home. I glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. I let out the clutch and drove cautiously down the rutted track. I tried to avoid the deepest potholes. The Land Rover only stalled once.

I stopped where the lane seemed to peter out into a dead end and moved aside the screen of brush that I’d piled up to mask the narrow lane from any unwelcome visitors. I drove the Land Rover through and put the makeshift barrier back in place.

The sun was shining, blue skies overhead. A perfect day for a road trip…

Luca and Joanna were nowhere to be seen as I pulled into the training center’s parking lot. The office and clinic were deserted, though none of the supplies were missing. I wondered, as I headed towards the kennels, if they’d had a change of heart and decided to strike out for the Italian border on their own. It was then that Luca and Joanna appeared from where they’d been hiding behind a row of storage sheds.

They went back in the office and changed into the borrowed clothing while I studied the road map. They looked better after their shower, and the new clothes covered their brands and the worst of their cuts and bruises.

The quickest way to the border was on Autoroute 8. However, border control at Vintimiglia would have a significant police and military presence from both countries. Neither Luca nor Joanna had passports. It might already be under surveillance by bounty hunters working for the Farm, or their contacts in the police force.

Highway D2566 from Menton wound through the back country towards the mountains. At Sospel, we would take Highway D90 towards the small border crossing at the village of Olivetti San Michel. The French and Italian border is sparsely populated. Luca and Joanna could follow one of the mountain trails on foot to the Italian side. I didn’t know if there were trains or public transportation still in service in Italy, but once they were on the Italian side, they could hitch a ride to Genova, and from there on to La Spezia.

We left the training center at twelve-thirty. Barring any detours or incidents, we would be in the vicinity of Olivetti San Michel within two hours. All I had to do was let them off before the village and the manned border crossing.

I quickly outlined my plan as we pulled onto the Grand Cornice. Luca rode shotgun. I could see Joanna in the rearview mirror, rummaging through the gym bag. She pulled out the food stores and cut slices of cheese and quartered two apples. She passed a handful forward to Luca. Both kids were still ravenous.

I hoped there wouldn’t be any trouble, but to err on the side of caution, I kept the Glock in my pocket close at hand. The road to Sospel was lightly traveled, and we made good time. The small hamlets and lone habitations we passed, as we ventured deeper into the foothills of the Alps, appeared deserted, their shutters barred, drowsing in the July heat.

I pulled off onto the shoulder of the road when I saw the sign indicating that Olivetti San Michel was only six kilometers ahead. Italy lay less than a kilometer to the east, on the other side of La Roya River.

We stood by the Land Rover to say our farewells. The embankment sloped down into a ravine; the shallow waters of La Roya tumbled over a small dam of natural stone before moving lazily downriver towards the sea. I saw, on the other side of the river, the trace of silt and debris embedded into the rock face, higher than the treetops—a reminder that every hundred years or so, La Roya rose from its banks and roared down the narrow valley from the high country, sweeping all before its fury. But today, a slight breeze rustled through the treetops, and dragonflies skimmed over its placid surface.

A trail led down to a footpath which followed the river’s course. A hundred meters ahead, a wooden bridge spanned the river. A trail snaked up the opposite hill before disappearing into a tangle of brush.

“I guess this is it. It’s probably better if you hike cross-country from here.” I spread the map on the hood of the Land Rover and traced their route.

“Look, what you need to do is head southeast until you find the Via Roma. Luca, do you see it here? That should take you to the Galleria Cima di Rovere. From there, it looks like all you need to do is head towards the coast in Imperia. Hopefully, you’ll be able to hitch a ride to Genova.”

“Si si…I have friends in Alassio and cousins in Genova. We’ll be okay from here.”

He seemed to be searching for words. “I don’t know how to thank you or why you helped us. But without you, we would probably have been caught. If you ever come to La Spezia…you have friends.”

“I’m glad we met. What happened to you kids is so unbelievably twisted and wrong. I hope you find your Nonna and you’ll be safe with her.” I turned to Joanna and impulsively gave her a hug. “Take good care of Evelyne Sophie. I’m sure she’ll grow up to be as pretty as her mom.”

She hugged me back hard and whispered, “You saved our lives. Thank you from the bottom of my heart…for helping me and Luca. And Evelyne Sophie.”

I held out my hand, and Luca shook it. He looked down in surprise at the money—400 Euro—that I slipped into his palm.

“But you’ve already done so much for us… and we can’t pay you back.”

“It’s okay, Luca. I wish there was more I could do. Just take good care of your girls, and get home safe to your family.”

Luca slung the gym bag over his shoulder and helped Joanna step down onto the steep trail. I saw them appear five minutes later, picking their way among the willows that grew close to the river’s edge. I watched as they crossed the bridge and started up the trail towards Italy and freedom. Just before reaching the top, they halted and looked back to where I waited by the Land Rover. Luca and Joanna raised their arms in farewell. They crested the hill, and disappeared from sight.

I got out the cans of gas and refilled the tank for the return trip. I turned the Land Rover around and headed back towards the coast. Now, I was alone, and the shadows cast from the looming foothills were lengthening across the narrow valley, the bright colors and sunlight leaching from the day. A two-ton boulder, teetering on the edge of the hillside, overhung the road up ahead, only waiting for a slight nudge to send it crashing down onto the roof of the Land Rover.

My hands were slick with sweat on the steering wheel as I rolled down the main street in Sospel. I imagined eyes watching me from behind the barred shutters, a woman traveling the high country alone. I felt an itch between my shoulder blades. A cat licked itself on a window ledge. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye: a dog; the outline of each rib showed as he slunk down an alley.

I accelerated out of town but soon was forced to reduce my speed on the torturous switchbacks. I took the Glock out of my pocket and placed it on my lap. I got the Colt out of my gun bag and placed it in the tray holder between the seats. I watched the rearview mirror, expecting any moment, a vehicle from the village to loom into view.

The kilometers crawled past with no sign of pursuit. I breathed a sigh of relief. Sospel wasn’t a ghost town, with ghouls lying in wait, behind darkened shutters, for an unwary traveler. This wasn’t L.A. There were no blood drinkers lurking in the shadows. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. The stores were closed, and probably everyone was at home, sensibly having an afternoon siesta.

I tried to relax. I would be out of this shadowed valley in less than an hour—off this perilous road that snaked through these hills.

Ten minutes later, as I was negotiating a sweeping curve, I glimpsed a dark Mercedes sedan heading towards me on the road below. The driver, smoothly accelerating out of the hairpin curves, handled the Mercedes like a Formula 1 race car driver.

The driver slowed down when he spied my Land Rover. Our vehicles passed each other slowly on the narrow stretch of road. A few meters separated us. Time seemed to telescope down, each detail vivid as I felt his gaze, avid and hungry, sweep over me.

He looked like hired muscle, pumped up on steroids. His meaty forearm dangled out of the open window as he leaned closer to study my features. Cyrillic letters snaked from his wrist, curling around his biceps before disappearing under the sleeve of his t-shirt, and then emerged along the muscles in his neck.

My scalped tightened, and I slipped the safety off on the Glock. Our eyes locked for a second, craziness and menace dancing in his pale, ice-blue orbs, and his thick lips split in a leer. His incisors were sharp daggers, and he flicked his tongue at me like a serpent.

He laughed at the look of shock and repugnance on my face. He must have gotten the reaction he was seeking, because with a last flick of his tongue and a wink, he roared off in a screech of rubber.

I felt like something filthy had crawled over my naked flesh. I was shaking after coming face to face with the worst nightmare of any woman, vulnerable and travelling alone on an isolated country road. I knew that down on the coast, the sun was still shining, but here, squeezed in by the foothills looming on each side, the sunlight had already fled, and a false dusk was approaching.

I knew I’d gotten off too easy. Predators can’t resist, when they catch the scent of what they assume is easy prey. Half the fun is toying with their chosen victim, ratcheting up the terror notch by notch. So, I wasn’t surprised when I saw the Mercedes reappear in my rearview mirror five minutes later.

He was coming up fast. His driving skills and the powerful engine gave him an overwhelming advantage against Arnaud’s ten-year-old Land Rover on these twisting roads. He rode my bumper around each turn, his hand held down on the car horn, as he tried to unnerve me and force me to pull over. He dropped back a hundred meters, then accelerated towards me, before slamming on his brake. Our bumpers kissed once. Twice. The Land Rover slid across the narrow road towards the edge. I caught a dizzying glimpse of the void a hundred meters below before turning the wheels into the slide and wrenching the Land Rover back onto the asphalt.

The road straightened out ahead. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The Mercedes dropped back two hundred meters, and then charged towards me again. I braced for the shock, but at the last possible second, he swerved around me. I saw his brake lights flash on before he disappeared around the curve ahead.

I slowed down and came to a stop. I took a series of deep breaths, trying to get my racing heartbeat and the shaking that wracked my body under control. I knew he was waiting up ahead in ambush. The freak wasn’t done stalking me. There was no way I could outrun his car, even if I got down out of the high country in one piece. He would taunt and torment me, follow me, even on the coastal roads, until finally, I ran out of gas or lost control of my car. This was just foreplay. Then, the psychopath’s real fun and games would start.

I had to think of a plan. I couldn’t just fall into his trap.

I eased the SUV slowly around the bend, all my senses alert. As I’d presumed, the Mercedes was parked, the engine idling, about a hundred and fifty meters ahead, on the opposite side of the road. The road was too narrow to easily turn around and flee back the way I’d come. He thought he had me boxed in, my only chance to escape on the road ahead.

He would let me pass. Lull me into thinking he was letting me go. He was confident I would be frantic with terror and desperate to seize this chance to escape. It was an illusion, the road to freedom lying within reach just ahead. He would give me a head start, a sporting chance, before he pounced and the game of cat and mouse commenced once again.

I looked at the Glock. My hand was steady. I had to play my part right. I would have only one chance. I rolled slowly forward half the distance and came to a stop, as if I was a timid mouse trying to steel up the nerve to race around a slumbering cat. I saw the back of his head, but I knew his eyes were watching me in the rearview mirror.

The sick, sexual-deviant psychopath—I’d bet money he was aroused, maybe even touching himself in anticipation of the hunt, his prey fleeing before him in terror, nearing climax.

I closed within twenty meters of the Mercedes and rolled to a stop, letting him think I was psyching myself up before making my dash for freedom. I went over my play once last time. I was gambling everything on the element of surprise and that he wouldn’t be expecting resistance. In the end, it would all come down to timing.